


a song for everything

by miraphora



Category: The Letter for the King (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:39:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23456407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraphora/pseuds/miraphora
Summary: “Is there a song for this?”Jussipo smiled. “There’s a song for everything.”
Relationships: Foldo/Jussipo (The Letter for the King)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 161





	1. spiral

**Author's Note:**

> I refuse to let such a pointless and malicious fridging stand.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To think she had come all this way in the pursuit of an award, only to find herself again and again giving up bits of her freedom and her soul.

Lavinia felt the furtive brush of fingers against hers, and fought off the urge to close her eyes and sigh. She was exhausted, scraped hollow and scoured empty by the Light, like a husked gourd left to dry on a windowsill. If she released her breath now, she might keep sighing until she deflated completely.

But she had done this before, when the need was on her—had felt the Light in her fingers and shaped the aura beneath her hands with healing. Could do it again, maybe, if the cost were not too high.

To think she had come all this way in the pursuit of an award, only to find herself again and again giving up bits of her freedom and her soul.

But all of those thoughts were deep inside, laid out along the spiral that sang within her. She pushed back her sleeves impatiently, pulling her persona hard around herself like a cloak, and prodded at Arman's broad backside with the toe of her shoe, trying not to teeter over.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Get out of the way!"

The boy grunted a mild protest but moved. She knelt at Jussipo's side, hands hovering over his wound, the way she'd done with Tiuri's before. The aura around Jussipo was as wan as his skin, the star-spark energy that had suffused Tiuri here dulled with the encroaching darkness of death. 

But she had fought back one darkness already this night; a darkness full of horror and madness and the threat of an end to everything. What was the death of one boy, to that?

There the aura flickered and weakened, swirling energy chasing itself through the tear in his flesh. What did she do? Who could know? She was hardly certain, herself, and yet she fixed her will on the wound, and felt the spiral unspooling within her as it began to close.

When she began to falter, she felt Tiuri's hand on her shoulder, and the Light within her leapt eagerly, already in recognition. They thought it was all her, but she could tell the difference it made, his proximity and focus, to the honing of her own energy. As though he were a doorway through which other powers might enter.

She hardly paid any mind to the fragmented conversation around her, Jussipo's faltering commentary and Foldo's heartfelt reassurances skimming past her, but eventually the boy's eyes slid shut and he stilled at last. An uncustomary stillness but not the stillness of the grave. His breast yet moved, lips parted slightly with breath.

The aura was still tattered, but his life felt less fleeting. She sank back on her heels, weak and unwilling to show it, and let her hands fold up tidily in her lap. Tiuri's hand tightened on her shoulder, and she knew he could feel that she was moments from swooning again. 

To be known even so much as that was terrifying.


	2. a fine pair of eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If anyone had asked Jussipo a day ago what he thought it would be like to die, he might have plucked a properly somber chord and described a scene in which a romantic hero with immaculate hair and noble brow succumbed to his wounds after a spectacular melee, while a bonny lad or lass with fine eyes mourned tragically. All in rhyming couplets, of course.

If anyone had asked Jussipo a day ago what he thought it would be like to die, he might have plucked a properly somber chord and described a scene in which a romantic hero with immaculate hair and noble brow succumbed to his wounds after a spectacular melee, while a bonny lad or lass with fine eyes mourned tragically. All in rhyming couplets, of course. 

He would not have had any idea that the noblest death might find a knight while saving his brave, fearless pest of a brother from slaughter. He would not have known the shocking pressure of a blade punching through leather jerkin and flesh to pierce his gut. He would not have imagined spending several agonizing minutes nattering about his hair while he sweated through his clothes with fear and stared intently into a pair of stormy eyes, all while trying to think of a way to rhyme “loving” and “recrimination.” 

He would not have thought that there’d be music.

A halting chord repeated itself before ascending tremulously along the fingerboard. As though this had been a signal, Jussipo became aware of his body in a way that was abruptly unpleasant: a mild throbbing at the back of his skull, a deep soreness in his middle, and fatigue through all of his limbs. 

It didn’t seem fair that you could die and still hurt. 

He wasn’t entirely certain anymore that the universe bent towards fairness, but all of the evidence seemed to suggest that he was not, in fact, dead.

He lay with that suspicion for a few moments, afraid to open his eyes and find that he was wrong. 

The fretful plucking continued, notes chosen at random, drifting momentarily into harmony, before straying apart once more. At last the fingers stilled, a chord muted beneath them. 

Best to do it quickly, then, with a quip and a grin. _As in life, eh?_

“I might make a bard of you yet.” His voice frogged a bit, hampering the delivery. He was parched. Surely the dead weren’t thirsty?

The strings made a harsh little sound as they dragged against the board beneath tense fingers, which scarcely concealed a swift, indrawn breath. 

In the song there would be a lingering, fraught pause, a drawn moment of tension. But reality was rarely like his songs. The lute thunked soft and hollow as it was hastily set aside, and the fingers that grazed his cheek before regrouping at his shoulder were cool and rough with callus. 

“I don’t think I could ever summon the necessary drama.” That voice, soft and warm, with the barest hint of a smile tucked into the corner like a secret.

It was a good voice, and an even better smile. Jussipo opened his eyes so that he could see it. 

Foldo was waiting for him, all stormy eyes and face a pale moon full of cheekbones and the stern slash of brows and the shadows welling in the hollows below. Candlelight rendered him nearly as striking as firelight. 

“Your stories are very dramatic, you can’t fool me.” Jussipo had to pause to swallow against dryness, wincing at the way his throat stuck and again at the way his wince aggravated torn muscle.

There was an ewer on the table by the bed, and Foldo brought him a needlessly ornate cup full of water from it, sitting on the side of the bed and sliding a hand beneath his neck to support him. Another wince, for the tender spot at the back of his head. He must have knocked himself on the stones when he fell, though he didn’t remember it.

Foldo apologized for the hurt by stroking his fingers down his nape, which was more than worth the aggravation. 

He had that look, that far-away look he’d had the night before—two nights ago? There was no telling, as yet, how much or how little time Jussipo had lost. That solemn look of concern that Foldo had called fear.

Jussipo had rarely seen anyone with as little fear as Foldo displayed even in the direst moments. Foldo was a rock, steady and unyielding—or an oak, sturdy and...not stout. Doughty? Jusippo paused with the cup of water at his lips, contemplating this tricky bit of diction, mind meandering while his gaze caught on a pair of lips that he realized now he had not kissed a last time before he died. Nearly died.

“A tragedy, averted,” he murmured against the rim of the cup, before drinking again and setting it on the table a little too heavily, limbs still weighted down with fatigue. 

Foldo refocused on him, lips parted slightly. “What?” 

The hand on the back of his neck began to retreat and Jussipo sighed as he settled back against the bed. A pause in the retreat—a possible retrenchment? But no, the hand resumed its withdrawal after a brief, petting sortie against the hair laying lank against the pillow. 

This called for more direct tactics. 

Jussipo sighed again, wishing for the touchstone accompaniment of his lute. A scene was so much easier to orchestrate with a chord or two to stir the blood.

“I would issue a formal invitation, but I fear that it would be intercepted by Red Riders and diverted into the care of a ragtag band of knights on a quest, only to make its way into your hands far too late.” It took effort to string so much drama into words, as weary as he was. 

Foldo went still, then blinked, lips parting again with hesitant curiosity. 

An eyebrow quirked, a faint smirk—Jussipo had the energy for these. “Aren’t you a storyteller? Surely you know what comes next.” A hint of challenge. He could be more direct now, than he had been before. 

Foldo looked at him searchingly, perhaps assessingly. He must look a fright. The anticipation coiled, though, as Foldo leaned in, more assured than he had been before, now that he had made up his mind and knew what reception to expect. Jussipo wondered if he had been afraid before, when he had been brave enough to close that first distance. Or if this bravery had allowed all of the rest, sinking all of those greater fears below the waves of tenderness.

He _was_ tender.

Jussipo sighed again, this time in satisfaction, just as their lips met. To think he had nearly gone to the grave without having this again. Foldo shivered at the gust of his breath and Jussipo shut his eyes, concentrating on the gentle caress of chapped lips and the stroke of a cautious hand creeping into a coil around his own. 

It was no wonder Lavinia had drawn on her magic with a kiss—Jussipo could feel his heart pounding, which was exhilarating and set off all of his aches at once. He tilted his head back, lips parting with no real intent, but when Foldo’s lower lip got caught between his, he sank the very edge of his teeth into it on instinct.

Foldo’s hand tightened on his, and he went still, a gusting breath escaping his nose through flared nostrils. Jussipo touched the tip of his tongue along where Foldo’s lip was pressed beneath his teeth, then retreated carefully. He cracked his eyes open the barest slit, gauging Foldo’s reaction. 

Galvanized. He tried not to feel smug. 

Foldo was examining him again, a little uncertainly. Perhaps screwing his courage to the sticking place.

When he leaned in again, Jussipo was more careful, willing to let him set the pace of exploration. They had time.

He wasn’t dead, after all.

* * *

“Is there a song for this?” Foldo asked.

Jussipo smiled. “There’s a song for everything.”


End file.
